


Finding Draco

by SlytherinsInSpace



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Endgame Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Friendship, Good Draco Malfoy, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Self-Acceptance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 17:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11605344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsInSpace/pseuds/SlytherinsInSpace
Summary: This is kind of a flow of consciousness for Draco and the events leading up to, and following the war. I have ideas in my head for what could happen, and what will happen but this just kind of feels like, I don't know, background information.For right now there isn't any Draco/Harry in this fic. The intent is to have some later and I intend to write a fully fleshed out fic later on, but I figured I would try something a little less structured for now and see what happens.There will be more than one chapter, and I will leave a link to the fic that will accompany this later once it is finished. It is started and in a note book and starts somewhere in the middle of this one, so yea.





	Finding Draco

There was a time when I didn’t think I would make it past school, in fact, I was so sure that I didn’t make plans.

I didn’t think about after Hogwarts, just took it one day at a time. Today I would think about tomorrow, tomorrow I would bother to think about the day after, never much more than that. There wasn’t a point. Why torture myself when I knew it wasn’t going to pan out, any of the plans I made when I was younger. They were stupid anyway.

The truth was I was on the wrong side of this war. I had known it for years, when I was thirteen years old being dragged into a fight I didn’t believe in against people I didn’t want to fight any more than I did, and wanted to kill even less.

Truth be told though, I didn’t have any love for either side of this war, perfect potter and his little followers would have all the slytherins thrown in Azkaban sooner rather than later.

Or at least I had thought.

Regardless when faced with the option of fight with people who will never trust you, against your own flesh and blood, or die fighting for a cause you don’t believe in. the choice was clear. I just tried to get through it all with as little blood on my hands as I could.

And then they were holding Luna captive. In my basement. And it wasn’t so easy.

Because it was right there, and I couldn’t ignore it. And I couldn’t just push it out of my head because she was screaming, and being tortured while I ate my damn breakfast.

And then, it was a choice.

A choice to keep ignoring the sweet girl being torn apart and left to rot in cold room.

A choice to not walk right into that room and bring her out myself.

A choice to be a fucking coward.

I like to think I helped a little bit, bringing her food when I could, talking to her when I did. But I know it was just to make me feel better. It didn’t do much for her, it didn’t get her out, set her free. It didn’t stop my aunt from having her “fun” with her. Sometimes for hours.

I was still a coward,

But I was a coward who made myself think that somehow I was better than the people who were really torturing her.

But I wasn’t, I was just as bad.

I knew I was going to die and I couldn’t even manage to save a life while doing it.

And then she was gone, and I knew it was true.

That she was saving me more than I was saving her.

And then, we were fighting. At home, at Hogwarts.

There were bodies everywhere, death eaters, children, family, friends, and enemies. All the same.

Bruised, battered, broken.

And then, we weren’t fighting anymore.

And I wasn’t dead.

Mother wasn’t dead.

Father wasn’t dead.

And it was over, potter had won and people didn’t know what to do anymore.

Some people left some turned themselves in, some people just kept fighting until they were struck down.

I just stood there. Waiting. I wasn’t sure what for.

They held us in the dungon, when they decided what to do with us. It felt like days but I couldn’t be sure, we didn’t really have any right to complain.

Father did anyway.

I just sat there.

Waiting.

Waiting to go to prison.

Sure that they would rectify this mistake, that I would die soon. At the hands of the ministry, at the hands of the dementors.

I didn’t know how.

It didn’t really matter.

The trial was set for a Tuesday, that’s what they said anyway. I lost track of days. They didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

They brought us into a room and stood us in front of a panel.

Most of the faces were familiar.

Some were new.

Potter sat a few seats back, McGonagall, and shacklebolt ahead of him.

He looked exhausted.

They all looked exhausted.

Though I imagined I couldn’t look much better at this point.

The verdict didn’t look good.

Father was going to Azkaban; it wasn’t a question of if, just of how long.

Surprising to me though, my mother was set free.

She cried when they told her, moving to stand off at the edge of the room.

And for me.

They said I was free.

That a testimony given by Luna Lovegood was more than enough evidence to lead them to believe I was acting under duress.

That I was no more in control of my actions than any child could have been expected to be. And they hoped I would do better in the future.

Their words bounced around in my head.

Cleared.

 

I was cleared.

I was alive.

I was free.

I stood there a moment unable to move.

Free.

I had never been free.

I didn’t know where to go, or what to do.

My mother wanted me to go home, but after everything that happened there, I didn’t think that I could.

That house just had too many memories. Haunting memories. The air there held too many screams.

Going anywhere seemed like a horrid idea, how could I face the people whose family, whose friends were dead because of my inaction.

I walked the grounds for a while before catching a train out of hogsmead.

I avoided the eyes of the children on the train.

My dark mark burned on my wrist.

A reminder.

A reminder that they were wrong about me.

That if I wasn’t at fault like they said I wasn’t I would never have been branded with this thing.

The train ride was long, but standing at the train station I couldn’t help but wish it had been longer. That

I had more time to figure out what I was going to do. How I was going to get away from all these people.

And suddenly I knew.

It wasn’t simple.

But nothing was.

I bought a ticket to London, paid the man and boarded the train beside a man in black slacks.

He smiled at me.

“nice tattoo.” He said gesturing to my arm

I nodded.

This was going to work, I thought.


End file.
